


Nice to Meet You (I Will Beat You)

by themorninglark



Series: title prompt challenges [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Manga Reference - Chapter 185, Oikawa is very competitive, Post-Canon, Reverse Chronology, and to everyone and no one's surprise so is Suga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 00:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5687176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/themorninglark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>"I win again," he declares triumphantly.</p>
  <p>"I'll get you next time," says Oikawa, smile tinged with the sharp tang of summer.</p>
  <p>It's no empty threat. Suga knows that he'll give it his very best, or kill himself trying, or, quite likely, kill them both. He's the <i>worst</i>. He's the best. (But, really, the worst, in the best way possible.)</p>
</blockquote>how to meet and beat your perfect match, a manual: from back to front.<br/>(or, four times suga beats oikawa and the one time he gets him back.)
            </blockquote>





	Nice to Meet You (I Will Beat You)

**Author's Note:**

> [nein](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nein/pseuds/nein) and I enjoyed our previous title prompt challenge so much that we agreed to try another this weekend. Our theme this time was: Bleach manga chapter titles. This is what she gave me, and this is the pair that came to mind right away.
> 
> It wound up even longer than the last one. It's also my first try at OiSuga, so - I hope you like it!

Oikawa's kisses are careless.

They taste of breath mints and cherry-flavoured chapstick, crumbs of milk bread, and somewhere on the knife's edge of his soft, soft lips, salt. They are capricious, wayward as the breeze over the mountains; and it's a dance that flirts with promise and forever, their kissing: whether by the dim kitchen light, or crimson dawn spilling through their half-open window blinds.

The thrill of the game never gets old, even if the score _is_ stacked rather heavily on one side.

(Oikawa never admits it. Not out loud, at least.)

When Suga opens the front door after work, he hears the _click_ in the keyhole and then, the footstep on the welcome mat, one second later. It's child's play for him, _really_ , to duck neatly, sidestep the kiss that waits in ambush and ignore the tiny whine of protest.

He takes his time locking the door behind him, smiling his most pleasant, beguiling smile as he removes his shoes and socks, hangs up his jacket, sighs with an exaggerated shoulder stretch - _tadaima - ahhh, I've had such a long day…_

The pout on Oikawa's face deepens. Suga keeps chatting blithely, keeping his voice light.

Mid-sentence, still in the doorway, complaining about a client, he takes his silk patterned tie off -

Steps closer, and loops it round the back of Oikawa's neck to tug his lips down in one swift, smooth motion.

Oikawa's eyes go wide in surprise, and Suga chuckles, because careless kisses will never beat _his_.

"I win again," he declares triumphantly.

"I'll get you next time," says Oikawa, smile tinged with the sharp tang of summer.

It's no empty threat. Suga knows that he'll give it his very best, or kill himself trying, or, quite likely, kill them both. He's the _worst_. He's the best. (But, really, the worst, in the best way possible.)

"Bring it on," Suga laughs, breath tickling soft and warm against Oikawa's cheek, and pulls him closer.

 

* * *

 

"I'll think about it," says Suga.

It takes him all of one minute and fifty-six seconds to do so, during which time he's walked down the dingy steps of the building, rounded the corner, let out a hapless sigh and wandered into a Mister Donut for a pick-me-up.

This _adulting_ thing had seemed so attractive in his final year of university. No more papers, no more burning the midnight oil trying to decipher his notes, no more commutes across Tokyo from his flat to Oikawa's because he'd finally be able to afford one closer to Ueno, except, apparently, he _can't_ , and what he _can_ is just not very - well, _nice_. Forget Oikawa's constant state of disorganisation and the mess he lives in, Suga has _standards_.

To top it all off, it's winter. It's cold. He's sneezing.

And his errant boyfriend's left him to the thankless task of house-hunting for the rest of the afternoon, with a flutter of his fingers and a text that reads _have fun! I'll catch u tomorrow! ★(◠‿◕✿)_ , which is why Suga feels entirely justified in buying a double chocolate Pon de Ring today.

He savours it on his way back to his apartment. Defeat goes down easier with something sweet.

The thought annoys Suga. He doesn't like being beaten. There's always tomorrow, he thinks, with determination, _tomorrow_ , perhaps he'll find the perfect place…

He shuffles the slush off his shoes as he goes into the lobby and opens his mailbox. There's one envelope in it. It's light blue, crinkly in the corners, like someone's stuffed it in in an excitable hurry.

There's no stamp, and nothing written on the front.

Suga stuffs the rest of his donut into his mouth and takes it out. There's no name on the back, either, but there _is_ a winking emoji that makes his heart skip a beat, and as he rips it open, something cold and sharp falls into his hand.

It's a key.

It's attached to a keyring shaped like a soft-serve cone. A piece of loose paper floats to the ground by his feet.

Dazed, Suga bends down to pick it up.

> _stop wasting ur time looking. u practically live here anyway.  
>  _ _p.s. bring ur own stuff!!! im not helping u move <(｀^´)>_

The handwriting is round and cutesy, childlike, almost. It makes him smile.

It's a handwriting that Suga's come to know. It's not a handwriting he thought would ever get the better of him, but then again, _defeat_ seems to be the theme of the day anyway -

And Suga is forced, for once, to admit that Oikawa's won this round.

(Well, there's always tomorrow for him to get back on track.)

 

* * *

 

The summer wind curls around their bare legs. There's the hint of July in it, sheer and sultry, _sweet_ , like the _sato-nishiki_ cherries now in season, like the pleasantries they have just exchanged, upon this chance encounter by the pond in Inokashira Park.

Suga wonders about the inevitability of it. He tries to perform some rapid mental calculations that skirt the edges of possibility, of the odds stacked against two university students meeting in a sea of _13 million people_ , and settles instead for another generous lick of his soft-serve. The mild, creamy vanilla is cool in his mouth.

Oikawa tries to slap a particularly persistent mosquito out of his face.

He misses narrowly. Suga watches as it flies off, haphazard and buzzing.

"I always thought Tobio-chan was the one I had to beat," says Oikawa. "But when I saw you play…"

Suga turns to him with a curious, raised eyebrow.

Oikawa has a blade of grass between his fingers, fiddling with it. He is restless, always restless, always moving; his ankles are twitching as he flexes his feet, his brow furrowed, his eyes a darker brown than Suga remembers.

"I was never a match for you or Kageyama," says Suga, lightly.

Oikawa shakes his head.

"You're bad news, Refreshing-kun. Because you can read an atmosphere. You can read people. You can read people _well_."

He draws closer, just a touch; his voice dips low, his eyelids hooded, and his lashes, thinks Suga, are awfully long.

"You're as annoying as this mosquito," he says. "I don't like things that get under my skin."

Suga stretches his back, sits up straight.

With one hand, he brings his soft-serve against Oikawa's lips, hovering millimetres away so that Oikawa has to lean in to lick it, and Oikawa, unthinking, does. Suga smiles.

With the other hand, he swats the mosquito against Oikawa's jaw; it leaves a tiny red mark on his fine, pale skin, and Suga's grin widens cheekily as he raises his palm to show Oikawa the glorious battlefield of his victory, even as he's met with an indignant gasp.

"You _slapped_ me!" Oikawa yelps, looking aghast.

"Oops," says Suga. "My hand slipped. I meant to do this - "

And without warning, he socks Oikawa in the ribs with the side of his palm, dodges the jab that Oikawa throws at him in return, and bursts out laughing.

Oikawa, after a moment of stunned silence, throws back his head and laughs too. The sound is like honey, thick and intoxicating, golden-bright in the midday afternoon.

There's a dab of soft-serve on the tip of Oikawa's nose. Suga elects not to tell him, for now.

 

* * *

 

When Shiratorizawa calls their final time-out of the match, Suga lets out a long, unsteady breath, takes another moment to settle his nerves and comes back to his senses. It's not all that sweltering in the gym - it's autumn, after all - but his heart's pounding at a million miles per minute, and it feels like the bleachers have filled up more and more as they keep playing, the press of people crowding in, the _heat_ , like smouldering, burning embers in the very air -

He looks up, and that's when he sees him.

He's up in the stands, wearing a sweater over his uniform, his No. 4 sitting nearby. He is - of all things - wearing black-rimmed glasses that make him look about two years younger. If it's a disguise, it's not a very effective one.

There's no mistaking that face anyway. But mostly, there's no mistaking that pissed-off look, the way the corners of his mouth twist in irritation, the way he's hunched over, hugging his knees.

Even as he frowns, he draws admiring eyes to him. He doesn't seem aware of them.

Their gazes meet, for a second, and Oikawa's the first to look away haughtily, turn aside and say something to his ace. He holds himself with an affected disinterest, like he just happened to pass by and tumble into this empty seat _entirely_ by accident.

Suga hides a fleeting, knowing smile behind a long sip of water.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, _you_ \- yes, you, Refreshing-kun - "

"Me…?"

"Yeah. Hi."

And Oikawa Tooru's lips curve upwards, full, lovely lips that have broken a thousand hearts, a smile like a beautiful siren's weapon upon his face, flashing in the fading glow of daylight.

"Nice to meet you," he says.

In the distance, the sun's going down over the mountains of Miyagi. It's all very dramatic, this backdrop, the sweat still glistening on their brows, although Suga can't help noticing that in the short window of time that's passed post-match, Oikawa's already gone and coiffed his hair in a perfect sweep across his forehead.

Their shadows are growing longer in the courtyard. The bus is waiting.

Oikawa's greeting, so innocent, lingers in the air between them like a handshake offered just a touch too casually; his words are spun sugar, sweet on the tip of the tongue before dissipating, melting, into an exhale that's slow and deliberate, a tang like the oncoming summer and an aftertaste that bites back just a little.

If he listens hard enough, Suga thinks, he'll probably hear the following noises in order:

 _one,_  cameras snapping,  
_two,_  a collective intake of breath, and  
_three,_  the sound of at least ten girls from Oikawa's fan club swooning from behind him.

He should walk away. This really can't be anything but a bad idea. All his instincts are on edge.

 

(He does not walk away.

Years later, Daichi will laugh his head off and say, _who knew this was where your competitive streak would lead, in the end_ , and Suga will cuff him on the shoulder and go, _shut up_.)

 

"Nice to meet you too," he says. "I'm Sugawara Koushi."

And he smiles back, his warmest, most dazzling smile, because two can play at that game.

 


End file.
